


upswing, downswing

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Character Study, First Meetings, Getting to Know Each Other, Injury Recovery, M/M, Poker, Post-Game(s), Pre-Slash, Scott isn't the Pathfinder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: A glimmer of recognition crossed the man’s face, one that Scott couldn’t return, and he abandoned his project to stride toward Scott, who was perhaps a more pleasant prospect at the moment. “The other Ryder,” the man said, pleasant enough, lackadaisical. He thrust his hand out once they were close enough to touch and his grip was solid, dependable despite the almost sing-song quality of his voice. “Good to finally meet you.”





	upswing, downswing

Scott had no business being up here on the bridge of the Hyperion, but that didn’t stop him from stepping onto it whenever he felt like it because Dunn was a gracious captain and he was the Pathfinder’s sibling and everyone felt like they owed him something for that. Of course, now that the Hyperion was permanently grounded—far more literally than he was entirely comfortable with if he was being honest—there wasn’t much more than a token crew up here to keep the place in check. One day, he thought, it would turn into an excellent viewpoint for tourists and history buffs. For now, he was the only one who seemed to notice it held the best view of Meridian you could get from inside the ship.

Cognizant of the awkward slant of the floor and the many wires that snaked across it, he stepped toward the railings that overlooked said viewport.

From this vantage point, it almost looked like you’d tip off the edge of the world if you stepped too close to the window before you. It was dizzying, transcendent, and though a headache throbbed at the base of Scott’s neck as he took in the vista before him, he wouldn’t look away.

“No, no. Not—ugh,” a slow, accented voice said from across the bridge. “You know what? You want to accidentally shut down the air filtration system, go right on ahead. I’m sure anyone with allergies or an interest in clean air will appreciate it.” When Scott turned to look, he saw a man with reddish-brown hair throw up his hands and assumed that was the person the voice belonged to. When he turned, too, a small frown pulling at his mouth, Scott was more certain. This was definitely someone who was done with his coworkers.

A glimmer of recognition crossed the man’s face, one that Scott couldn’t return, and he abandoned his project to stride toward Scott, who was perhaps a more pleasant prospect at the moment. “The other Ryder,” the man said, pleasant enough, lackadaisical. He thrust his hand out once they were close enough to touch and his grip was solid, dependable despite the almost sing-song quality of his voice. “Good to finally meet you.”

Instead of grimacing, Scott smiled. He really was the other Ryder now, wasn’t he? That wasn’t this guy’s fault or Sara’s or anyone’s. “I like to think of myself as the handsome Ryder, but I suppose I should take any recognition I can get now that my sister’s a hero,” he quipped, buying time with which he might figure out who the man was. Engineer. Accent. Kind of snide. A name, hazy, came to his mind, heard inside his head in his sister’s voice as she caught him up on what he’d missed.

There was so much he’d missed and he couldn’t quite smother the pang of unhappiness, of resentment, for having missed it. For not being here for any of it.

For not being here for Sara.

“Gil, right? Scott Ryder.”

Gil nodded and shrugged and a rush of gratification washed through Scott at having successfully kept up despite inferior knowledge. “You won’t find any disagreement from me on that score,” he answered, somewhat dubious, leaving Scott to wonder if he was flirting with him or mocking him. “But, ah, sure. I’m Gil. The one and only.”

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Scott said, dredging up a bit of the trivia Sara had imparted to him while he’d laid sprawled, spread eagle, on what should’ve been his father’s bed after a strenuous bout of physical therapy. In his father’s quarters. That were now his. Even though they were the Pathfinder’s. Because Sara gave them to him. She didn’t need them after all.

“Yeah,” and here, Gil wore the doofiest smile Scott had yet seen in Andromeda. It warmed a small part of Scott. The cynical part of him still didn’t think they’d ever reach anything approaching normalcy here. And an even smaller part of him regretted coming here at all. But for a moment, it seemed… everything really would be okay. If people could still find themselves knocked sideways by babies in spite of what had happened, everything would be just fine. It had to be. “I still can’t believe it.”

Scott smiled and looked back over the surface of Meridian, awed by the preponderance of trees, so much green that he couldn’t catalogue all the different shades. It wasn’t so different from back home really. And yet wonder stuck in his chest, caught hold of him around the neck and dragged him under. This was a whole new galaxy and there was no going back and they’d have to start from the ground up.

It was exhilarating; and it was exhausting. Scott couldn’t imagine how Sara managed to pull this all together, but now that he was up and moving, he’d back her up in whatever way she needed. He’d help her the way her crew had done in his absence.

“So, um.” Gil cleared his throat. His fingers wrapped around the railing, his grip tight against the metal. He pushed himself into it, leaning over as though he was standing on a bridge and wanted to get a better view of the terrain underneath. He kept one leg stretched behind him, the toes of his boot mashed against the floor. Sucking thoughtfully on his teeth, he peered at the scenery before them, almost seeing past it to something far beyond what was right outside that window. It was something that came from experience, Scott suspected, something Scott couldn’t be privy to.

Gil’s shoulders twitched and he shook his head. Then he glanced Scott’s way, assessing. “How do you feel about poker?”

“This is where I back away slowly and claim I don’t know a thing about it, right?” he answered. Sara’d already told him everything he needed to know about Gil and poker, but he wasn’t afraid of losing and he wasn’t afraid of a little shit talk if and when he did. “I don’t know what my sister told you about me, but I used to babysit the Arcturus relay. Had a lot a downtime.” Scrutinizing Gil, who was now showing a flattering degree of interest, he opened his palms and raised them, innocent. “You ever play cards against a turian?”

Gil’s lip twitched. “Once or twice.”

“Me, too. Not easy.”

Gil huffed and drew back his shoulders. “Speak for yourself. I had ’em all pegged the first time I saw a mandible flare. Obvious, really. And sad.”

Scott laughed and clapped Gil on the shoulder. Through the thick canvas of his uniform, Scott was able to feel a solid enough shoulder, its muscles more defined than Scott might’ve expected. Gil’s work clearly wasn’t just of the theoretical sort. Scott found he liked that and wished he had an excuse to let his hand linger. “Good for you,” he said, drawing his limb back. “That takes skill.”

Gil’s brows drew together. His mouth formed a small, confused frown. Perplexed was likely the least of what he was feeling if that look was anything to go off of. Probably Scott wouldn’t be able to beat him at cards and Gil knew it—not unless he was very lucky… though it wasn’t like Ryders were known for their deep wells of good fortune—but people like Sara conceded to nothing gracefully. If the tales she’d shared of her team were any indication, they weren’t great at making concessions either. Scott wasn’t so different in that respect except in one particular: Sara thought changing the game was a concession, a failure. Scott just called it smarts in the face of overwhelming odds. If he could change the winning conditions, that meant he stood a chance. Might not win him a game of poker, but it might earn him something better.

Gil’s attention. That seemed like a worthwhile grab.

“Name a time and place, Gil. I’ll be there.”

“Masochism runs in the family, huh?” He shook his head and tsked mournfully all while a twinkle formed in his eye, playful and glinting, the kind of warmth behind it that suggested Gil was good people underneath it all. “Tough break.”

Rolling his eyes, Scott shoved at Gil’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure why he did it. It wasn’t like they knew each other yet and Scott didn’t consider himself much for casual physicality, but the barest, creaking quirk of Gil’s mouth made the gesture worth it. It was an unintentional display of amusement, private, something Scott could have easily missed if he hadn’t been looking as closely as he was.

Scott might have flattered himself that it was the kind of thing Gil only let loose rarely, like he was more used to being the source of amusement than being amused himself, but if he _was_ maybe, just a little flattered, he didn’t let on with that fact.

Because Gil probably had a memory on him, anyone that good at poker had to, and he wouldn’t hesitate to keep giving Scott shit long after it was no longer funny if he thought Scott _cared_ about something like how to get Gil to laugh. Scott could tell. Gil gave off that sort of vibe.

“You talk a big game.”

“Only when I can back it up.” Gil drew in a deep breath. His eyes dragged slow and heavy over Scott’s physique or lack thereof. Months of coma did him little good in that department. Hell, he still felt weak if he walked for too long—or stood even, his legs going shaky while his stomach took a swooping dive toward the ground. Even so, the glint in Gil’s eye suggested he liked what he saw. “And I can _always_ back it up.”

Somehow—this was a lie, Scott knew exactly how and it had everything to do with the challenging, upward tilt of Gil’s jaw—they ended up back at what passed for a bar on the Hyperion. Scott didn’t even know the name of it and Gil didn’t enlighten him, merely saying that it sure as hell wasn’t Vortex, but it’d do. Scott hadn’t even known a bar had been set up here.

Scott whistled, moderately impressed by the achievement. “Mood lighting and everything,” he said, pointing out the array of purple, blue, and occasional pink bulb illuminating the room in dull, dark shades. Under better circumstances, it was easy to lose track of time on the Hyperion. Here, he imagined it only got worse.

“What?” Gil asked, leaning close to be heard over the thudding music.

Scott didn’t flush, but it was a near thing. “I wonder where they got the…” His fingers twitched to indicate the lights.

Gil nodded, understanding. “Good ol’ humanity, huh? We’ll always find a way to bring along the most useless crap imaginable even across six-hundred years’ worth of dark space.” Gesturing toward a row of booths butted up against the back of the place, he added, “Take your pick of spots. Get you anything?”

“Ah, water maybe.” Scott shrugged and refused to resent himself for still being on the mend. “I’m pretty sure doc would have my head if I tried anything stronger.”

A brief flare of something crossed Gil’s face. Concern, maybe. Or regret. Contrition possibly. Whatever it was, Scott didn’t let himself think too hard about it and he certainly didn’t allow himself to think of it as pity. And he especially didn’t want it from Gil. But then Gil’s features cleared and he offered the sloppiest salute Scott had ever seen. Given some of his colleagues back on Arcturus Station, that was saying a lot.

Scott watched as Gil turned and walked toward the bar. Or sauntered really. He wasn’t above looking and he certainly liked what he saw, not least of all when Gil reached his destination and leaned against the counter toward the gentleman holding court over the half-circle that formed his alcohol-soaked kingdom. Despite the distance and low, unusual lighting conditions, Scott caught the white flash of Gil’s teeth as he smiled and easily imagined the pleasant lines that would form around his eyes as a result.

That smile made something squirm in Scott’s gut. He couldn’t say it was unpleasant exactly, but it made him uncomfortable enough that he decided it was safer to focus on pretending he cared about which booth they ended up sharing. He didn’t know Gil, not yet, not really.

It felt a whole hell of a lot like he did anyway.

Sliding onto the cushioned bench that made up one-half of the booth he’d settled on, Scott refused to linger on that feeling.

He always had been a little impulsive. Not enough to be called reckless, maybe, but he had a few scars on him courtesy of his tendency to rush forward, heedless. The only thing he could say for himself on that score was he came by the trait honestly. He hadn’t been the first person in his family to rush headlong into trouble, romantic or otherwise. Probably wouldn’t be the last either. Maybe. Assuming the kett don’t come back and wipe them all out.

He didn’t have long to linger on that particularly charming thought though.

Here was Gil, slipping onto the bench across from him, one tall, chilled glass in each hand. As soon as he placed one of them in front of Scott and the other before himself, he shifted slightly and pulled from his pocket what turned out to be a very old, very tattered deck of cards that were held together by a rubber band.

They looked the way Scott sometimes still felt. Even after all the PT, all the medications and therapies and weeks and weeks of rest, he couldn’t shake the weariness, the fatigue, the sheer and undefinable sense of malaise that lingered. Harry’d told him he’d be feeling weird for a while, but that hadn’t prepared Scott for the possibility that he’d one day feel of a kind with some worn out pieces of ancient plastic.

“How long have those been in your pocket, Gil?” he teased, nose wrinkling with feigned distaste. “And should I be concerned?”

“I’ll have you know this is my lucky deck of cards,” Gil answered, dignified affront at the ready. The sound of the deck slapping against the table resounded throughout the booth, louder to Scott’s ears than he might’ve expected. The blue, swirling designs across the backs of each card might have faded with age, but Scott could tell they’d been beautiful once. They still were, in fact, and suggested a steadfastness of character in Gil that maybe even Gil didn’t know about.

_He’s a good engineer,_ Sara’d said about him once, her knee hitched up on his—or dad’s, he couldn’t help but be reminded that these were dad’s quarters on the Hyperion, not his—bed as he’d stared up at the ceiling, hands behind his head while he listened to her. _Goes with his gut a lot, makes some impulsive decisions. It’s gotten us out of a lot of scrapes on the Tempest, I can tell you that much_.

“I thought you didn’t need luck.”

“I don’t.” Gil grinned and Scott wasn’t above admitting it was a _good_ smile, the best he’d seen in a long time. “But you might.”

“I don’t need luck.” His fingers tapped, light and rhythmic, against the edge of the table. “I’m already having a good time.”

Gil’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ and his brows lifted slightly. His eyes searched Scott’s face, suspicious, before he finally thought to speak. “I like a little confidence in my opponents.”

“Is that what you see me as?”

“With these between us?” Gil pushed the cards toward the middle of the table and patted them with more gentleness than they looked like they’d seen in a long time. “Sure do.”

“Are you always so affectionate with inanimate objects?” Whether Scott asked to get a rise out of Gil or not, he couldn’t rightly say.

“Wait until you see me in Engineering,” Gil answered, like it was inevitable that Scott would, in fact, see just that one day. Scott hoped his belief was well-founded. Some days, Scott wasn’t sure he’d ever set foot on the Tempest himself, serve in the capacity he’d been sent here to fill. Some days, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to. “You have no idea how affectionate I can be with inanimate objects.”

Surprised laughter burst from behind Scott’s teeth, formed within the bubble of amusement that was building in his chest at the earnest way Gil admitted to that fact. “Well,” Scott said, avoiding the urge to cough indelicately. “That’s something.”

If Gil was embarrassed by his phrasing, he sure owned the hell out of it by shrugging his shoulders and saying ‘what, it’s true’ in the most unconcerned way Scott had ever heard in his life. “Are we playing or what?”

Scott almost asked what the _or what_ portion of Gil’s question would entail, but instead he nodded and kept the retort to himself. There was time enough for innuendo.

Sara’d given them that. The whole of the Tempest gave them that.

“Yeah.” Scott gestured expansively. “What are you waiting for?”

Nothing, apparently, as Gil shuffled and dealt the cards. Flicking them expertly across the table at Scott, he couldn’t hide the wide shark’s grin that stretched across his mouth. Scott smiled back, far more serene, unconcerned with the very real possibility that he’d be losing here. There were no stakes except whatever honor Scott might be willing to trade away and the imaginary credits their omnitools were keeping track of as they made bogus bets—another interesting thing to know about Gil: apparently he didn’t care about any reward except the pleasure of victory.

Silence descended as they played the first few hands. Scott spent most of his time staring down at the cards. Gil, meanwhile, focused the entirety of his attention on Scott. His regard weighed heavily on Scott’s awareness, buzzing just out of reach. It was unnerving. What could Gil glean from such scrutiny?

The bench’s cushion squeaked slightly as Scott shifted, but when Scott finally raised his eyes, Gil was merely looking at him quizzically, head tilted just so.

“What?” Scott asked.

The answer Gil gave was just a little too quick for Scott to take entirely seriously. “Nothing.”

Like the last few hands he’d been dealt, this one wasn’t particularly good, just a pair of threes, but Scott was getting bored and curious. “Fifty,” he said.

“Think you’ve got something, huh?” Gil said, sucking thoughtfully on his teeth. “I’ll call.”

“Raise.” Scott quickly calculated how many _credits_ he still had. He could’ve consulted his omnitool, of course, but where was the fun in that. “Seventy-five.”

Gil whistled. “Bit rich for my blood this round,” he said. “What’ve you got?”

The cards splayed across the table and talked for Scott. Not that that stopped him from answering anyway. “Not a thing.”

The skin around Gil’s eyes crinkled and his gaze took on a bright, glinting quality as he scrutinized Scott. “All right,” he said, his hands opening in a wide, expansive gesture. He formed a fist and rapped his knuckles against the table, the rhythm quick and excited. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Beating back the urge to preen, Scott ducked his head and clapped his palm across the back of his neck. That gambit probably wouldn’t work again and now Gil’s attention was all-encompassing. If it had been impressive before, now it was something else entirely.

_This is what you wanted_ , Scott thought, experiencing a flutter of unease at his own impulsivity. _Gil’s attention_. In a very literal way, he was over six-hundred years out of practice at this sort of thing. And though that wasn’t true subjectively speaking, it absolutely felt that way right now.

They played a few more hands and, though he wanted to, Scott didn’t fumble any of them on purpose. He’d learned from a very young age that powering through discomfort would be rewarded and that reward, in this case, would be more time spent with Gil. That was worthwhile.

“Raise,” Gil said, yanking Scott from his thoughts.

“What are you raising?” Scott asked when Gil said nothing further.

“I’ll be honest, I think you’re bluffing.” His chin jerked vaguely at Scott’s cards. The second round of betting is already done and there wasn’t a whole lot left that Scott can do. “So. I win, you let me take you on a date. You win, well. You’ll have to tell me what you want. A favor or—”

Scott bit back a smile. “You want to take me out on a date?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? You’re not a bad-looking guy, Ryder. And you’re not the worst card player I’ve ever seen. Why wouldn’t I want to? If that bothers you, we never have to talk about it again.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” This time, Scott couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his mouth from stealing across his face. He glanced back down at his cards. “All right,” he said, laying it all out there.

The cards fanned across the table. Black black black black black. Spade spade spade spade spade. Five six seven eight nine.

“You bastard,” Gil said, breathless, a little admiring. He only had a full house. Two kings, three jacks. Not bad, but not good enough. He didn’t have a leg to stand on. Or a hand, in this case. “What do you want from me?”

“So many options.” It was possible he delayed answering on purpose with the hope of stretching the tension out just a little bit, make Gil work for it a little. And Gil did, leaning toward Scott, his elbows braced against the edge of the table. Scott met him part way because Scott could a team player when he wanted to be, when it was worth it. “Why don’t you take me out on that date you wanted? That sounds nice.”

Gil’s eyes widened a little, his version of surprise, Scott imagined, before he raised his palm to cover the sly smile forming on his mouth. Scrubbing his hand across his jaw, he nodded, as cool as could be given the topic at hand. Scott, though, always felt poised upon a precipice at moments like these. A hum pulsed erratically within his chest, spread to his limbs, swept through his stomach every time this opportunity was granted to him..

It was a sensation he loved, like skydiving and rock climbing and racing through obstacle courses with Sara when they were both being pig-headed and fueled by determination alone to win against one another, and so he relished it.

“Yeah, I can definitely do that,” Gil answered after a gratifying delay. “I’d like to.” Before he could say more, his omnitool chimed. The distinctive orange flash of the thing lit Gil’s face, highlighting an equally ephemeral disappointment in the downward twist of his mouth. “Unfortunately, duty calls.”

Regret and envy churned inside of him. He wanted nothing more than to be a productive member of this damned Initiative, but he couldn’t be until he was healed up. Everything seemed to depend on it. He refused to allow himself to admit how much Gil’s intervention had meant to him. He hadn’t had such a good time in a long while. “Another time then,” Scott said, gracious. It was easy enough to hide his disappointment behind a courteous smile.

“You can bet on it.” Gil’s hands braced on the table as he slid out of the booth. “Especially since you owe me a rematch.”

To be honest, Scott didn’t mind the thought of it. “I think you’ve got the majority of fake credits we’ve been playing. What’s the point of a rematch when you’ve won?”

Affronted, Gil tugged at the belt loops on his coveralls. “It’s not a win until you’ve left the other guy penniless. Everyone knows that.” Winking, he jerked his head toward the exit. “And I’ll be more ready next time. You won’t fool me again.”

_We’ll see about that_ , Scott thought.

As Gil headed for the door, Scott considered the possibility that it was time for him to brush up on his poker skills.

He couldn’t say he minded the thought of it.


End file.
